


Hose me down with holy water

by Builder



Series: Whoa Bessie [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Trans Steve Rogers, Vomiting, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Sometimes the mundane things set him off.  But sometimes the mundane things bring him back.  When James can't differentiate the real world from the world in his head, Steve comes to rescue him.  With love and frozen vegetables.





	Hose me down with holy water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mohini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/gifts).



> find me on tumblr @builder051

Steve feels the heat coming off James through most of the night, so when the alarm goes off at 6:30, Steve silences it quickly and lets him sleep.  James mutters something indistinct when the covers shift down his shoulder, but Steve kisses his temple and tucks him back in.

The coffee pot seems especially loud and slow as it drips out the morning brew.  Steve taps out a text while he waits.

_Steve Rogers:  I don’t think James will make his appointment today.  He’s sick._

 

_Sam Wilson:  Sick with what?_

 

_Steve Rogers:  IDK.  He has a fever._

 

_Sam Wilson:  I hope he feels better soon._

 

_Sam Wilson:  U coming in today?_

Steve looks down at the message.  James should be able to take care of himself.  He’s not a child.  He lived alone before he moved in with Steve.

The thought of leaving him by himself sparks a feeling of uneasiness in Steve’s stomach.  James has gotten good at taking his meds, but he’s still had two seizures in the past month.  Steve imagines him waking up foggy and confused.  Falling on the hard tile in the kitchen.  Slipping in the bathroom.

_Steve Rogers:  Don’t know yet.  I’ll keep you posted._

 

_Sam Wilson:  10-4_

Steve knows he can’t worry about every little thing.  Otherwise he’d never get out of the house.  Something about James’s expression keeps him on edge, though.  The crease between his brows, the look of pain he wore even in his sleep.  Steve can’t help but worry.

The lines of discomfort are still drawn across James’s forehead when he shuffles into the kitchen.  It’s almost nine, and Steve’s almost late, but he’s not going anywhere yet.

“Morning, sunshine,” Steve says.  “How’re you feeling?”

“Hm.”  James pulls out the chair beside Steve’s and collapses into it.  He rests his elbow on the table and drops his head into his hand, his hair puffing out above his ear.  “M’ head hurts.”

“Yeah,” Steve intones.  He rubs James’s shoulder, testing his temperature through his t-shirt.  “You were spiking a fever overnight.”

James takes a congested-sounding breath.

“Want some tea?” Steve asks.  “I know you like your coffee, but something with honey and lemon might help you feel better.”

“Hmph.”

Steve is used to James’s less articulate days, and he takes it as an affirmative.  “Ok.”  He gives James’s stump arm a loving pat, then grabs the kettle off the stove and starts to fill it with water.

“Do you think you can handle some ibuprofen?”  He glances over his shoulder.  James hasn’t moved.  “Or is your stomach feeling bad too?”

James doesn’t get a chance to reply.  Or maybe he does, and Steve just doesn’t hear him.  A car alarm starts screeching from the parking lot, and the kettle’s slippery handle slides out of Steve’s grip.  It lands in the bottom of the sink with a clang, and almost simultaneously, there’s a crash from the table.

“Buck!”  Steve leave the water running and rushes to James’s side.  He didn’t see it happen, but it seems James pushed his chair back on instinct and succeeded in both shoving the table and tipping himself over backward.  It doesn’t look like his head hit the floor, but Steve still moves gingerly, just in case.

“It’s alright, Buck.”  Coffee runs off the table onto the floor.  Steve wraps his arms around James’s chest and shifts him forward a few inches, off the broken pieces of the chair.  James blinks hard a few times and lets out a wheeze.

“You just knocked the wind out of yourself,” Steve says.  He presses the flat of his palm against James’s ribs, hoping to ground him.  “But you’re ok.”

James looks up at him, but there’s no recognition in his eyes.  His face slowly contorts in pain.  He draws his knees up to his chest and bats Steve’s hand away as he pulls his arm over his head.

“No, no, Buck,” Steve says frantically.  “James.  You’re safe.”

“I’m…” James moans through gritted teeth.  “I’m  _burning_.”

Steve’s heart falls through the floor.  The fever, the unexpected sound…  It doesn’t take much to transport James back to the Middle East, even without these blips on the radar.  “There’s no bomb, ok?” Steve says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.  “You’re sick.  You fell.  But it’s fine.  You’re fine.”

“Get away,” James whispers, his voice throaty and tearful.  “Leave me here.”

“Aw, Buck.”  It’s always hard for Steve to remember his instincts as a counselor when his instincts as a partner come up first.  But it’s clear words and gentle touches aren’t going to be enough.  James is nearing hysterical.  He might be hallucinating.  Steve isn’t sure how much is flashback and how much is illness.  He needs to fight both.

“I’ll be right back, ok?  I’m still going to be right here,” Steve says.  He keeps his hand on James as long as he can, then dashes across the kitchen.  He throws open the freezer and snatches the first things he sees.

Steve drops to his knees and skids the last few inches back to James’s side.  He wedges a block of chopped spinach under James’s arm and holds a bag of peas and corn against his chest.  “Alright.  Let’s cool you down.”  Steve cups James’s cheek.  “You’re in DC.  You’re in our apartment.  You’re home.”

“I—I don’t—”  James makes a strangled sound, and Steve isn’t sure if it’s a sob or a gag.

“Shhh, it’s ok.  You’re just sick.”

James’s body heaves, and he spits up stringy mucous and bile onto the floor and Steve’s knee.  “That’s alright.  Get it up.”  Steve pats him on the back a few times.  The bag of frozen vegetables falls between them with a crunch.

James nudges is face into his sleeve to wipe his mouth, then he looks at Steve through the greasy curtain of his hair.  His mouth is slightly open, but his jaw trembles.

“There you are.”  Steve offers a small smile.

“Hm.”  James drops his gaze to the peas and corn.  “That’s cold.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, unable to keep from laughing.  “Yeah, it is.  You’ve got a pretty high fever.”

“I don’t…feel very good.”

“I know.”  Steve tucks James’s hair behind his ear.  “I’m sorry.”

“No, I…”  James’s throat seems to work hard around the words.  “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Steve assures him.  “How about we get you cleaned up and back to bed.  That sound ok?”

James blinks slowly and nods.  “You’re…gonna stay?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says.  “I’m gonna stay.”


End file.
